“Partly. None of us had had an easy time whenever the polis or the social came on the scene. They were bastards. It was like everyone had just given up on us. We knew they’d just blame us, say we’re thick, like retards or something, and we’re sluts and whores and we were doing it for the drinks and drugs and free meals. What did they call it? A ‘lifestyle choice.’ Some fucking lifestyle.”

“Weren’t you doing it for the drugs and drink?”

“You don’t know what it was like. At first they just told us not to tell anyone we were hanging out with them because people wouldn’t understand. People didn’t like them because they were Pakis. But later they could be nasty if you didn’t do what they wanted. They’d push you about a bit. Besides, we couldn’t tell anyone by then. We’d done stuff. You couldn’t get away because they knew everything you’d done, like the drugs and the drinking, and they told us we were just slags and that’s all anyone would think if we tried to tell them about what was happening.” Jade sniffed. The silence felt heavy in the dark musty house. “They’d taken pictures of us, too. You know, videos on their mobiles. With other men and stuff. They said they’d put them on the Internet so everyone would see what kind of sluts we are. They knew how to find out your weaknesses and exploit them. I think Mimsy was terrified of her mother finding out. In the end, like I said, you’re in so deep you just get to thinking there’s no way out. You give up. It’s easier to do what they say. Besides, the presents keep coming. But then Mimsy got killed.”

It seemed odd to Gerry that most of the parents didn’t seem to know or care where their daughters were most of the time, or what they were doing, yet Mimsy was terrified of her mother finding out. Things must have been really bad after Sinead found her daughter with that psychological counselor. “What were you most afraid of?” she asked.

She could hear Jade breathing fast. “I don’t mind the dark,” she said finally, “but I can’t stand being locked up in a small dark place. They had somewhere like that in the back of Hassan’s restaurant, an old larder or something. It smelled of bad meat and rancid grease. I’d get panicky there, like I couldn’t breathe, and I’d just want to die. It was like when I was little and they locked me up under the stairs if I misbehaved. My stepmother called it the ‘Harry Potter Room.’ It always made her laugh, that.”

Gerry let a few seconds pass in silence. “But you’re talking to me now,” she said.